


Moving Forward

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Background Relationships, Children, Multi, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis admires Porthos and Elodie's children, and what that means to Porthos after all these years. (post-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "write a canon or modern fic of porthos with his band of children, all adopted or a mix of adopted and not, and aramis <3 <3 <3ing at how he sees traits and little things of porthos in each of them"

“She seems happy,” Aramis says, watching Elodie – now visibly pregnant with her and Porthos’ next child – easing into her seat and speaking with Anne. They both look beautiful in the midday sun, Aramis thinks, the sun in their hair. 

Out in the garden, the king makes a noble attempt at running away from a cluster of Porthos’ and Elodie’s children. Aramis feels warm all over, watching them. Marie leads the way, guiding her younger sisters and brothers. The young Louis laughs, tripping his way through the waist-high hedge-maze to get away from them. 

“She is,” Porthos says, then adds, somewhat less confidently, “I hope she is.”

“I’m sure she is,” Aramis murmurs, bumping his shoulder to his. Porthos gives him a small smile – light and gentle. 

He loves that smile. It’s the same smile he’s seen Marie give her siblings. 

Aramis had made a habit of finding Porthos in his children. He can’t help it – and wouldn’t want to help it, regardless. Anne’s been rather insistent that Elodie and her children spend time at the palace while Porthos is out at the warfront. As a result, Aramis has spent some time with Porthos’ children, gotten to know them well. 

There’s Marie, of course. Most are quick to point to her looking so much like her mother, but Aramis has seen the way she scrunches her brow and nose when deep in thought – an utterly endearing Porthos gesture. She is a living, spitting image of Porthos in all his gestures – his frowns of frustration, his chewing of his bottom lip when thinking deeply, his way of ducking his head and pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes when he cries. 

There’s their second child, Katell, a young girl from the Court that stumbled into Elodie’s home one night and never left – her nose often crinkling much like Porthos’, her eyes soft and warm like Porthos’. The small little hum of happiness when there’s fruit for breakfast. His thirst for knowledge – precocious in a way one so young can manage, not even pausing to consider what it means to demand more books from the Queen of France, but always gobbling up what she’s able to read at such a young age, fingers tracing over the diagrams and drawings she stumbles across. 

There’s their third child, Mathieu, an orphan from the warfront that rode into Paris with Porthos and never strays far from Elodie’s side. He is a quiet, sullen boy – fidgeting when he’s nervous, not unlike Porthos’ own agitated movements when he can’t sit still. And Porthos’ humor – his laugh loud and almost frightening in its intensity from one so sullen. 

There’s their fourth child, Armand-Jean – all laughter and curiosity, his father’s ears and dimples. There’s much in his face that’s Elodie’s, but Porthos is there, too – the softness at the corner of his eyes when he smiles, the way his laughter hiccups out of him when he’s surprised. 

There’s their fifth child, Yvette, still a toddler wandering after her siblings – full of Porthos’ boundless energy and courage, even in the face of the unknown. She is always smiling, it seems, and her dimples already look just like Porthos’, the way her hair falls around her ears even in tiny curls. 

“You have that look,” Porthos says, interrupting Aramis’ thoughts. “What are you thinking?” 

Aramis smiles and turns to look at Porthos again, eyes warm. He reaches out and rests his hand on Porthos’ arm, just lets himself luxuriate in having him so close. 

“You’re a good father,” Aramis says. 

Porthos laughs, disbelieving, but looks pleased – relieved, rather – as he ducks his head. His smile is small and almost easy to miss – Mathieu’s smile – and Aramis feels the sudden, burning urge to reassure. 

“They’re all happy,” Aramis continues, his eyes darting to the king running through the hedge-maze, just managing to duck away from Katell when she tries to dive and grasp his coat tails. Their laughter carries across the garden. Behind the children, Elodie and Anne are watching them – both smiling at their antics. “You made them so. Both you and Elodie.”

“And their godfather, I suspect,” Porthos answers, voice light. 

Aramis laughs, almost flustered. 

“Which… reminds me.” Porthos straightens, tilting his head towards Aramis. “Elodie and I were talking.” 

“If you want to take back the godfatherhood, I’m afraid you’ll have to pry it from me,” Aramis answered, teasing – if only to stave off his sudden uncertainty. It isn’t like Porthos to be nervous – not like this. It only makes Aramis worry in turn. 

“Not that,” Porthos agrees, laughing. He looks flustered – nervous in a way that Aramis hasn’t seen in years and years. “About the baby.”

“Is the baby alright?” Aramis asks, immediately alarmed. “If you need a physician—”

“Stop,” Porthos interrupts, but not ungently. “The baby’s fine. Let me finish.”

Aramis purses his lips together, although he does feel much less panicked with the reassurance. 

“Elodie thinks it will be a boy.” He laughs, softly. Aramis smiles, faintly. He knows the joke – Elodie has been wrong each time about the gender of their children. Porthos continues, “So we’ve been talking about names.”

Now Porthos begins to fidget – Mathieu’s gestures, Elodie’s furrowed brow. He’s nervous – Armand-Jean’s mumbling words and Katell’s chewing lip. 

“I thought – I wanted…” Porthos pauses. “If it is a boy, I wanted…”

“Porthos,” Aramis interrupts, softly. 

He glances down at the children, down at Anne and Elodie. He reaches out and takes Porthos gently by the wrist and leads him away. In the relative seclusion of a corner around the garden, Aramis lifts and touches Porthos’ cheek. Porthos leans into the touch, breathing out. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Aramis says.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Porthos answers, turning his head to kiss Aramis’ palm. They’re quiet for a moment and Aramis watches as Porthos draws in a steadying breath and straightens slowly. “I have a question.” 

“Then ask,” Aramis prompts, soft, swiping his thumb along the line of Porthos’ scar. 

“If it is a boy, could we name him after you?” Porthos asks in a rush. 

Aramis stares at him – and the bottom drops out of his stomach. He starts and then shakes once. Before he can take his hand back, Porthos covers it with his own. Aramis wouldn’t be able to articulate the sudden wave of panic that washes over him, but it’s there, and it’s suffocating. 

Porthos, in turn, looks devastated by whatever it is he sees on Aramis’ face. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take it back – only waits for Aramis to speak. Aramis has always valued that in Porthos. That patience – reflected in Armand-Jean’s quiet understanding when others are distressed, in Marie’s tendency to reach out and hold her siblings’ hands when they’re scared. Waits. 

Aramis looks down. He isn’t sure why the sudden fear fell over him, that sudden reassurance that his name is a cursed name, that he is ill-suited to be anyone’s namesake, much less a child as perfect and beautiful as Porthos’ and Elodie’s. 

“Why my name?” Aramis asks. “Surely there are better suited names.” 

Porthos seems to relax at the words, strangely enough. Likely because he realizes, as Aramis does, that his reaction is irrational. And yet—

“Two of my children are named for my parents,” Porthos says, calm. “And two for Elodie’s family.” 

“That isn’t…” Aramis trails off, desperate. “That isn’t quite the same.”

Porthos shifts, lifting his hands to cup Aramis’ face. He looks at him – sure and steady. “You are my brother.” 

Aramis wavers a little, breathing out. He touches at Porthos’ wrists, but does not tug his hands away. 

“… Why wouldn’t I want my son to be named after someone I love?” Porthos adds, quiet. He offers a small smile. “If you tell me no, we’ll think of another name. Knowing Elodie and her predictions, it’s going to be a girl anyway.” 

“Surely Elodie can’t agree to you hogging all the names,” Aramis protests. 

Porthos laughs. “Aramis,” he says after a moment, voice warm but serious. He swipes his thumbs over Aramis’ cheekbones and Aramis feels boneless just from that. Porthos says, quieter still, “Tell me why this bothers you.”

“It isn’t… bothering me, precisely,” Aramis protests, weakly. “But… But I’m not sure if naming a child after me can be considered a good idea. It isn’t – I’m not…”

“My son would be named after someone I love and trust, who cares about me and always has my back,” Porthos says once he’s sure Aramis has trailed off. “He’d be named for someone strong and brave, someone kind and gentle. And he’d be named for someone who’d love him just as much as his mother and father do, just as he does all his siblings.” 

Aramis laughs out, watery, his throat tight. He looks down, closing his eyes. A moment later, he feels Porthos’ lips against the corner of his eye, the bridge of his nose. Aramis leans forward, and their foreheads press together. 

“I can’t think of a better name than that,” Porthos tells him.

Aramis almost protests more. But instead, all he can do is simply nod and accept. He breathes out. 

“Well,” Aramis says, uncertain. “At least naming him that would guarantee he’ll be handsome. Not that it’d be impossible for any of your children to not be beautiful.” 

Porthos kisses him – a brief little press of his mouth to his, but it is infinitely comforting. 

And four months later, Aramis holds the newly born René in his arms and does not despair, lets himself trust his will be a good life. Knows he’ll grow up fully loved and cared for by his entire family. And for now, that’s more than enough.


End file.
